


Do You Trust Me?

by thtzwhatuthink



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst-Free, Cuddling, Fight Scenes, Fluff, Hand-job, Italian Mafia, M/M, McCree has a hanzo kink, Strangers to Lovers, blow-job, hanzo has a bite kink, heavy physical contact, mission to cuddling sesh, noodle dragons save the day, so much cuddling, to some extent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-20 10:47:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10661001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thtzwhatuthink/pseuds/thtzwhatuthink
Summary: “Intimate contact is a luxury I haven’t had in a decade.” That got McCree to raise his eyebrows. “What do you qualify as,” finger quotations raised to where Hanzo could see them, “intimate contact?”“Touch of a man without intent to kill.”“Oh, darlin’ that bar is too low.”





	Do You Trust Me?

There were swaths of men against two.

An infiltration mission that had gone so right it became wrong. What they had meant to investigate was a seaside cave that had been tipped to be an illegal operation. However, months of satellite monitoring found nothing remotely suspicious about the area. McCree and Hanzo were sent there to ensure the cave was harmless, and finally close that part of the case. The place considered so unimportant that it was merely a pitstop from another completed recon mission. That other mission had also gone well, and after scouting the area they were supposed to go home.

Not stumble into an actual base which OW headquarters had no evidence on existing apart from that one tip.

In the countless years of experience both agents had under their belt, this organization before them was unrecognizable.

Illegal arms and illegal drugs.

There were multiple submarines adorning the walls of the single giant room, size equivalent to an airplane hangar. The cave was cloaked in hologram easily passible but completely invisible to the naked eye and apparently google earth. The hanger must have been open for easy access to the crew and for export, but having complete faith in a cloak device worked only until the location was discovered.

The aircraft parked on the flattest ground above that Athena could find above the coordinates. Hanzo and McCree drop down into the hanger from the cliff-side via ropes and rock jumping. They swing through the illusion of rocks into a massive room lit only by the suns glare on the water outside.

Something wasn’t right. McCree could feel it in the air.

Glancing over to Hanzo, it was obvious he could feel it too. The room recently deserted, clearly in haste as computers scattered about are on without screensavers, whatever work on the screen left uncompleted mid-process. The room felt like it was filled with the kind of heat you feel from bodies near, a sense everyone has but only few train extensively to use.

Hanzo looks over at McCree, eyes narrowing. Jesse concludes that Hanzo also trained to detect those living around him.

“I got a bad feelin’ about this darlin’.”

The Japanese man expression read unfazed, yet his muscles were tense. It dawns on Jesse that Hanzo might have trained that ability significantly more than he did.

“They’re hiding in plain sight.”

The sunglare fades as the sun hid from their view by a single thick cloud. The room darkens significantly. An uneasy atmosphere settles only for alarm to arise, on both parties. Simultaneously the two men could hear sharp inhales and exhales around them as red light flickers all around the room. Both suddenly feel hell of a lot colder with the sun not present on their backs. What once appeared as an empty room was now filled with what McCree could gage as fifty to sixty men and women, all in white uniforms; all with strange blinking red sensors that ran along the entirety of their body.

“You come to wrong place.” An unknown voice, thick Italian accent and broken English reverberates from an undistinguishable point in the crowd before them.

_Mafia_.

The time it takes for their enemies to pull weapons out of boxes enabled the archer to draw his bow and for McCree to whip PeaceKeeper out. Unfortunately, it was not enough time for them to call backup. The first shots fired weren’t from the duo, nor were they directed at the duo. A sharpshooter in the back severed the drop wires that would have served as their exit and way to get back to their aircraft. The next shot was the communicator in Hanzo’s hand and the one attached to McCree’s belt. The sea side mafia was careful in making sure they would never find contact with opposing organizations such as Overwatch or the authorities.

They were McFucked.

Hanzo didn’t appear as concerned about their lack of backup or means of escaping. The mafia didn’t know what they were up against, although they seemed confident and maybe that’s what makes Jesse wary. A woman wielding a sniper rifle laughs at Hanzo, idly flexing his bow with an arrow already loaded. Jesse wasn’t sure if the archer was trying to cue a subtle warning or if it was a nervous tick, it certainly didn’t give off an ounce of what Hanzo’s reputation was.

Jesse doesn’t even see Hanzo flinch. Yet he hears an arrow piercing the air around it; he feels gentle wind his bow expends after firing. He sees the ribbon holding up Hanzo’s meticulously styled hair swish a little with motion from flexing back muscles.

The laughing woman falls to the floor—an arrow logged between her eyes, smile still present on her lips.

Jesse instinctively steps closer to Hanzo, the heel of his boots clacking on the cement floor. Hanzo projects his voice, low and solemn:

“If a fight is what you want, then I am sorry for your loss.”

The sound of McCree flicking the safety off on his pistol is the only thing heard in a long stretch of silence. Both agents stand tall; McCree hopes his scowl is intimidating. He itches to look over at Hanzo, but realizes the body language would show weakness.

First hearts stilled around the two agents as the archer’s action and words fully processed.

Second came the anger. The first guys who aimed in their direction were kissed by Peacekeeper’s bullets.

As bodies fell to the floor, the rest of the bandits strike in larger waves. McCree not fully knowledgeable of Hanzo’s strategies or capabilities, acts first. Seemed like a no brainer that a short-range fighter defends a long range one too. The Archer seemed to have anticipated this.

McCree sees his chance.

A guy in the far-right corner of the room drops dead amidst Jesse’s high noon summon. He hears Hanzo call out he will handle the snipers, but Jesse is incapable of language in a high noon state. A tumbleweed flies behind him. He zones in on every move of each of the six men he locks on to, the warmth in his back steadies his shot as he calls upon the dueling sun, before his reflexes fire at will and the gun in his hand spasms. The orange hues illuminating the whole room snaps out of existence with the sixth bullet fired. The bullet shells clinking to the floor are the queue for adrenaline and muscle memory to fade. His mind in overdrive processes what Hanzo said moments before. Jesse calls out to Hanzo he will defend the front line, albeit delayed.

A combat roll forward, a stun, and a kill. Rinse, repeat _. Rinse, repeat._

McCree power squats to avoid a sniper’s headshot. Peacekeeper’s bullet hits the skull of said sniper before Hanzo’s arrow leaves his bow. Hanzo eyes widen at the reaction time, and he hears the vaquero mumble a sorry; Hanzo couldn’t tell if it was meant for him or the poor soul he laid to rest.

Rushed Italian suddenly roars over the intercom at the top of the room. Another horde enters the room from beyond the hanger. It dawns on McCree that he’s fast approaching his reload speed limit.

He shouts his concern, desperation and exhaustion seeping into his tone. By this point they’ve taken out thirty to forty men, however the approaching horde would restock those numbers to well over seventy or eighty. Hanzo hears the tone more than the words, and registers where the reinforcements hail from.

The sky darkens and rumbles ominously from the horizon. That single thick cloud from earlier merging with several more. Rain could be faintly smelled beyond the blood and gunfire. The word “ _Petrichor_ ” passes through Jesse’s mind. The smell is vivifying.

Hanzo doesn’t know when he called for McCree to be back at his side, but once the man is in an arm’s length he’s yanked close.

“ **Do you trust me** , Agent McCree?” Firm and clear words. A bullet flies through the top of McCrees hat—neither flinch.

“I’d be dead if I didn’t.”

It’s enough for Hanzo to embrace the storm forming behind him.

McCree’s perplexed about his comrade’s question at such an obscure time, however the thought is shoved to the back of his mind with two soldiers approaching fast; painful looking melee weapons in their hands. McCree takes them out with a bit of a stumble. The next two drawing near he ends up missing a shot. Panic creeps its way into Jesse’s mind, unsure of how much ammo he would have to burn through to sustain their ground.

He feels his stomach drop, not from nerves. Jesse feels the air crackle. The sky behind him flashes brightly, thunder crashing into his ears immediately after. He flinches. Everyone flinches, as the obnoxiously loud boom painfully echoes in the massive room. That strike was too close for comfort.

Everyone flinched except for the man beside him.

A baleful aura settles. Something bad is about to happen. McCree knows it. The nearby enemies know it. Reinforcements slow their pace only ever so slightly into the room, only because of the thunder and not the vibes. Jesse’s free hand lands on Hanzo’s shoulder carefully but firmly enough to indicate “get the fuck down” without words.

Yet Hanzo doesn’t budge.

His bare shoulder burns beneath the heat-receptive metal finger tips.  Jesse’s hand flies off when he realizes the dragon tattoos are glowing. His attention flies up from the tattoo to the notable icy glare in his eyes; a stark contrast to fire of his skin. The image of cool and calculated never wavered, but briefly McCree contemplates the fire and fury that resides in his body and soul.

There’s no further time to appreciate the man besides him. Open fire strikes again, this time all hands-on deck. Their forced to retreat backward, to the lip of the ocean. They duck behind a conspicuous pile of packages in opaque green bags, firmly duck taped to a forklift pallet, to hide from gunfire. McCree examines their current positioning to give his mind something to focus on apart from the impending doom of being surrounded with no way out except for a minimum fifty meter drop to the waves crashing below.

Lightning serves as a flashbang.

Tinnitus smacks Jesse. His eyes clamp shut from the vibrant light, destitute of vision as his retinas recovered.

He felt Hanzo had left his side, and vaguely makes out the archer’s legs and tattooed arm scaling the nearest wall. The man sinks to the wall before forcefully pushing himself away; whipping around to face the crowd of enemies all the while ripping the bow from his back.

Another dialect McCree doesn’t understand thunders into the room as Hanzo falls, reminiscent of the storm outside striking again to numb his senses.

That’s when the dragons peel themselves from the ink on his skin.

The room goes cold—hearts still for the second time that night. Hanzo’s lands soundlessly on the ground; drowned out by another roll of thunder. In fact, McCree didn’t even see his feet touch the floor, a flash of lightning was instantaneous with the deafening thunder.

Ferocious cerulean spirits circle the room; dropping anyone who passes through them. Their bladed tails smacking violently against the submarines and equipment strung all along the wall, triggering them to crash to the floor and kill more.

McCree can’t ogle for more than a moment, as there’s a strong hand roughly grabbing his bicep and yanking him toward the edge of the cave. McCree’s senses still lost to the storm now raging, the grip felt like it would leave a bruise, but it was the least of his worries. His eyes meet Hanzo’s face; oh god, that handsome hardened face. There was a blue fire in his eyes, his chiseled features so much sharper against the dark sky that more into something more malignant when lightning illuminates only the high points of his face. Then McCree acknowledges his eyes glowing the same hue as the dragons wreaking havoc on the room; he registers his lips moving and that he should be hearing words, but sound eludes him.

The only word he can mouth-read from whatever statement Hanzo expressed to him was “Trust”.

Jesse’s reminded of the statement earlier, and that’s all it takes for his weight to shift before he’s accelerating toward the edge of the cave. At some point Hanzo’s hand detaches from his arm, the feeling ignored as they both bound off the edge and immediately begin free fall. The torrential downpour hits his hair, face, then back. The only thing between him and death by limestone is air.

And then he’s grabbed again by his arm. Jesse’s yanked mid-air to the left before flipped to face the sky. Swiftly, Hanzo is underneath him, wrapping his arms around McCree’s torso. The man’s arms are still burning hot, but at this point he doesn’t care because blue dragons surge out from the cave above and Jesse witnesses them lunge.

The spirits flew downward faster than terminal velocity, and they zip right past his boots. He swore he heard a “Thank you” whispered in his ear before feeling a force hit Hanzo’s back and thus his own.

One of the divine who destroyed the illegal base also just saved their lives. Without a word of instruction, the dragons sore upward. One serves as a gunfire barrier to the passengers of the other.

McCree yells into the rain above him, because holy hell how did they make it out of there alive? He never witnessed Hanzo’s combat, let alone the capabilities of what he could summon last resort. As if Hanzo heard his silent question of how they were alive, he mumbles confirmation:

“The base is destroyed, we’re safe.”

McCree wasn’t sure if Hanzo was trying to convince himself they were okay or him. The cowboy tilts his head to the side once the drop-ship comes into view—or rather where the drop-ship _should_ have sat. Instead, there was merely a pile of rubble.

“The ship… not so much, partner.”

McCree feels the man under him shift his head, he hears an exhale of ‘ _Kuso’_ and the grip around his abdomen squeezes him for a moment. The dragons huff, before Hanzo informs into McCree’s nearest ear that he’s requested the spirits to take them to Gibraltar and that he has no idea how long it will take them to reach their destination. McCree’s too happy to just be alive, and hell, ecstatic about being unharmed. With a hearty chuckle that presses against the restraints of Hanzo’s arms on his stomach, he voices this. Couldn’t give less of a shit how long it would take either; home is home no matter the hour.

Now that the leap of faith event was over, McCree tries to roll off, starting with hand on the dragon for support. Except, his hand fades straight through the scales of the dragon they’re aboard. His weights already in the motion of slipping off. His eyes widen, muscles tense.

“Uh _oh_ —“

Hanzo immediately pulls McCree back onto him.

“You have no bond to the dragons, they’re beyond your honor to touch.” McCree huffs; now holding onto Hanzo’s forearms like a kid with an oversized seatbelt.

“Ya tellin’ me I’m not respectable?”

“No. You’re going to plummet unless you are sitting or lying on me; I have permission to ride them.”

Jesse ponders why couldn’t he just ask for permission, but in all honesty, he wouldn’t dare deny a valid excuse to be spooned (albeit awkwardly) with an attractive man. Especially one that just saved his life. Hell, the situation called for a cuddling session immediately after.

However, Jesse feels that he should be repaying the comfort as big spoon.

There wasn’t much comfort going on in the current moment, and McCree does feel bad for squishing the shorter agent under his weight, however he has no other choice. At least he’s serving as a meat shield from the rain, which has since lightened up to mere drops every now and then. Hanzo isn’t complaining of their predicament either.

Unsure of how to start casual conversation for the ride home, McCree elects to let his mouth just barf out whatever it may come up with, _even if_ it’s inappropriate when you’ve barely worked with a colleague.

“I’ve never been the lil’spoon before.”

There was a long silence. McCree shifts to have his hands clasped over his own heart; proceeding to twiddle his thumbs.

“You’re counting this as cuddling?”

“Well, not to rock yer boat, not the best cuddling. Although I do appreciate it since it’s been a long time comin’ since I’ve been held by a man.” McCree grinned as he spoke.

He knew the smile could be heard through his voice. He expected a jut or witty rebuttal in reply, for a few reasons. One, he regarded their current predicament as subpar cuddling. Two, he threw his sexuality out there. Three, he indirectly admitted to not being laid in quite a while; however, McCree figured that was _really_ reading between the lines.

What he didn’t expect was Hanzo’s breath to catch.

Something very difficult to pick up on unless you’re keen at squeezing information out of people— _or_ your ear is less than three inches from their face.

McCree’s eyes clamp shut when a rain drop smacks him directly on a pupil. When he opens his eyes again he swore the clouds were slightly darker, the rain heavier. McCree assumes the subject is lost after no response; instead deciding to check on how Hanzo was holding up with his weight.

“Darlin’ you alright underneath me? Yer sure I’m not squishin’ ya?”

“I’m fine, I just had… relatable thoughts.”

McCree lets out a sound of inquiry, as if to encourage explanation. Another silence occurs, and Jesse wishes he could be face-to-face so he could at least read the archer’s emotions instead of hanging on every word, body shift, and tone. The silence isn’t uncomfortable, McCree realizes that it’s how Hanzo communicates; every thought carefully considered and every word spoken had meaning. Hanzo was the kind of person that made the cowboy lean closer, and never repeat what he said.

“Intimate contact is a luxury I haven’t had in a decade.”

That got McCree to raise his eyebrows.

“What do you qualify as,” finger quotations raised to where Hanzo could see them, “intimate contact?”

“Touch of a man without intent to kill.” Hanzo’s voice is void of emotion; the tone sounded well practiced. He was intentionally holding composure that was far from casual. McCree’s empathetic and he wears the tone on his sleeve:

“Oh darlin’ that bar is too low.”

Hanzo says nothing more on the subject, and Jesse doesn’t expect him to. He doesn’t know how long they flew near the clouds, the sky never once changing from stormy gray, even as McCree suspected the sun would soon dip below the horizon.

When the dragons begin to descend noticeably, McCree sits up; legs dangling through the body of the spirit, on each side of Hanzo’s hips. He feels Hanzo staring at his back, but he elects to ignore and instead look down at watchpoint Gibraltar.

Hanzo’s legs criss-cross, and McCree hears a request to shift his legs from the sides to in front. Hanzo sits up, serving as an excellent human chair. Arms abruptly wrap around McCree’s waist, and for a second he stiffened; sitting a little straighter. He feels Hanzo’s head thump against his shoulder and a sigh of relief ensue.

They reached home.

McCree instinctively rubs the arms around his stomach, a soothing gesture he didn’t think twice about until it was already happening. Briefly he considered the boundary of work overstepped, but Hanzo does nothing more but feel heavier on his back.

Hanzo was leaning into his touch, and McCree wasn’t sure if Hanzo was aware of it. Hanzo began whispering his natural tongue in a way that could only be assumed as a prayer. The dragons emit low rumbles from their throats, and steam arises from their nostrils in response.

McCree recalls earlier, with Hanzo’s lack of positive human contact, and then glances down to his hand rhythmically stroking the archers exposed arm. Maybe he should offer to hang out.

They were several meters from the base and still in a high altitude, but McCree didn’t have much longer until they would run into others and be required to report today’s debacle. Squinting, he could already see a blur dashing around base. Tracer likely spotted them and alerting the others.

The helipad lights flicker on, and the dragons change their direction.

McCree figures it’s now or never.

“After Mercy’s inspection and case reporting, how ‘bout I repay the cuddling session? Feels like ya might need it.”

“I do not need it.”

“But do ya wan’ it?”

Hanzo doesn’t answer. He feels a huff of warmth through the fabric of his shirt.

From down below Tracer belts into the sky,

“YOU’RE BOTH ALIVE WOOO!”

McCree takes his hat off and waves it, sliding off Hanzo’s lap and straight through the body of the dragon once the ground was within safe distance. Mercy was sprinting with a clipboard across base, stethoscope bouncing around her neck.

Morrison was already present at the helipad, as was Winston and Tracer. More soon came outside to see them. Everyone watching in wonder as the massive spirit dragons shrunk to the size of Hanzo’s arm, before wrapping themselves around the ink and merging into his arm. Before anyone could say a word to Hanzo about what they witnessed, McCree cuts to the chase and addresses Jack directly,

“So uh, the Italian Mafia is alive, and they sure as hell ain’t nice.”

Hanzo immediately steps beside McCree, posed professionally, and begins to announce damage report first. Ship, communicators, ammo used, and then physical harm report. Mercy’s pen flies across the cllipboard. Then Hanzo begins on the damage report to the enemy base. McCree supplements the statements.

This continues for about an hour.

It’s late when McCree can finally experience the comfort of his room. The one candle he received as a Christmas gift, black decaf coffee (his favorite) and strutting around in just his briefs fresh out of a shower. Rubbing a towel to his messy hair he hears a knock on the door. He fumbles to get worn flannel pjs onto his legs before opening it, attempting to be somewhat presentable to whoever may need him. It was unusual to have visitors this late.

The door swings open to reveal his cuddle buddy from earlier, two communicators in hand. The plastic covering each screen meant new and likely replacements. Hanzo makes a weird face; taking a hot minute to make eye contact, despite Jesse’s awareness his eyes were on him the whole time.

The knowledge makes the cowboy puff out his chest just a little more.

“Here’s your… new communicator.”

“It don’t look like that’s the only thing you’re here for, Agent Shimada.” Testing the waters was risky, but McCree knew that facial expression like the back of his hand. There are ulterior motives for showing up. Hanzo must have realized his composure was down, snapping out of it and shoving the communicator through the doorway.

“Just Hanzo, please. This is yours.”

“You’re welcome to come in if you need, Hanzo.”

McCree shifts in the doorway, allowing ample room for passage. He fights a knowing smile when Hanzo crosses the boundary to his room, then surprised when Hanzo makes a beeline for the bed and then faceplants it. Arms sprawled out.

McCree chuckles warmly, actively avoiding staring at the round butt protruding from his sheets as he questions,

“I feel ya. But why my bed?”

“It smells like you, and honestly it’s comforts help me convince myself you’re still alive.”

There’s that other purpose McCree detected earlier, however it has him taken back. Hanzo allowed him to escape unharmed; in a catch twenty-two situation of “die by bullet” or “die by cliffs” Hanzo created a third option for both of them on the fly to allow them to live and get home safely. It was a miracle. Any other agent assigned to that situation with McCree and both would still be over in Italy getting Mcfucked. Jesse voices this while approaching the bed and then sitting down on the edge.

“I’m very much alive, Darlin’. I’m tangible proof right here.”

McCree, seeing that Hanzo’s already on his bed, brings up the cuddling offer again. Hanzo’s face shifts from laying his cheek on the bedsheets to full direct faceplant. Couldn’t be in that position for long however, he was operating on held breath and McCree knew it. He grabs handfuls of the bedsheets while face down, McCree’s offer unanswered but he didn’t really care when there was an attractive man face down on his bed, fisting sheets.

McCree shoos the thought away—or at least tries to.

“Yer positioning makes me question if you want more than cuddling.”

That got him to bolt upright, in conjunction with his fist punching the nearest aspect of McCree, aka thigh. McCree yelps his retreat, before the sound morphs into chuckling. Hanzo’s face was bright red. It remains bright red even though his expression oozes annoyance. Likely a little embarrassment he’d never admit in there too. Hanzo whips around to sit properly on the edge of the bed, poised to remove himself from the room at any given moment. McCree notices how undone Hanzo’s hair is at this point, and almost misses his words:

“And to think I was about to agree to your offer.”

That’s all it takes for McCree to shuffle behind him, arms wrapping gently around Hanzo’s waist. Chest pressing up against back, chin hovering right above name of neck, lips right near ear.

“Forgive me Darlin’. I can make it up to you.”

Sincerity is what he strived for, however he hoped his actions were more appealing. McCree was a man of many loud words to his friends, but he was a quiet lover. There was a sensuality he felt when touching the once blazing hot skin of Hanzo, however remove the heat of battle and he felt like ice.

McCree couldn’t see Hanzo close his eyes, but could feel muscles relax and weight shift onto him which he bore with concealed enthusiasm. Hanzo melts into his arms. A soft chuckle makes it past his defenses, and he squeezes the man in his arms before pulling him onto the bed more. He coaxes their bodies to lay down together, meanwhile feeling the bed for the remote to the TV. It’s plopped down in front of Hanzo, a wordless option if he so desired background noise.

The weather channel’s jazz soon plays at low volume.

McCree keeps the arm now tucked underneath Hanzo closely wrapped around him; other arm begins to rhythmically rub from shoulder, to arm, to waist, to hip, repeat. He’s deliberate in his breath tickling Hanzo’s neck. Unsure if he could remove the hairtie barely in place. A toe suddenly strokes his calf, and a moment later their legs are entangled.

McCree’s not sure when Hanzo’s rather curvaceous butt found itself snuggly situated against his pelvis, but lo and behold it’s there and the only thing holding a hip roll back is the fear of a broken nose or black eye. Instead he elects to lean in to Hanzo; shoulder slanting forward, hand moves to rub heart, legs further entangling, hips pressing ever so slightly forward. Hanzo makes a gruff noise, but it’s more of contentment than anything else. Like the soft “ruff” of a guard dog not at full attention and vicious bark, not at full relaxation, but a somewhere in between relaxed and defensive.

His tension, barriers, stress, _whatever_ weighs omnipresent on his shoulders slipping off, albeit slowly and just for a little while.

McCree’s fingers slowly draw patterns above his sternum. On occasion, he would press his palm flat against the bone to feel his heartbeat. The cowboy refrained from neck or shoulder kisses, unsure where the boundaries lie. He opts to just ghost his lips over the nearest stretch of skin, delighted when he sees goosebumps arise. A few more minutes of doing his best to elicit goosebumps and McCree finally caves,

“What are yer boundaries with cuddlin’, Sugar?” He asks low, proximity making up for his hushed tone and husky timbre before tacking on, “I want to know what’s comfy fer ya.”

“ _You_ are incredibly comfortable.”

McCree gently headbutts Hanzo, “Not what I meant, but that makes me giddy.”

High cheekbones shift from McCree’s viewpoint—someone was smiling.

“And with how nice this is, I don’t find myself opposed to anything.”

“ _Mmm_ —buttsex shall we?” It was supposed to be joke. It really was. McCree fully anticipated some form of physically painful retaliation or clever insult. He didn’t expect the smooth almost instantaneous response of, “Dinner first, and it would be your butt.” **McCree dearly wishes Hanzo was facing him, because that sounded so genuine.** The cowboy lifts his head up, neck straining to get a look on the other’s face. The amused side-eye McCree receives screamed it was a joke, but the haughty smirk says otherwise.

“I can’t tell if yer joking or not.” McCree’s blunt. He must be, because this man knows he’s hot shit and McCree is no longer so sure that just because they are in his room, he has homefield advantage. Hanzo’s hand settles over the foreign hand on his heart; McCree thoughtlessly begins to track his vitals, eyes lingering on the flushed lips in front of him.

“And what if I’m not?”

Sight shifts from lips to eyes— _oh he knew._ Somewhere in McCree’s mind he registers Hanzo’s vitals have remained steady. He was so calm, not nervous. This man either has seen worse than death or has had wild sexual experiences to the point that approaching casual sex is mere Tuesday afternoon cup o’ joe. McCree had a sinking feeling that it was both, but that feeling was quickly replaced with temptation of the guiltiest kind. He dearly hopes the mind games weren’t just a product if his own reprieve; aware that Hanzo was likely a master at mental manipulation knowing his previous profession.

McCree wouldn’t mind if he purposely playing games with his thoughts—it was kind of hot.

McCree’s definitely not in his own playing field. Hanzo had like eight trap cards, and McCree felt like he just triggered all of them. Instead of a response, because Hanzo clearly don’t need one, McCree opts to resume the original objective of cuddling. Head falling back to pillow, heavy with the knowledge that Hanzo could connect the dots that he had his eyes on him.

Arms wrap completely around Hanzo as head nestles closely against exposed neck. McCree feels the goosebumps against his cheek, this time unrestrained kisses graced the sensitive skin, up along the length of his neck. Hanzo’s arm wiggles out of his hold to let down his hair. Hanzo had yet to clean up fully, but the release of hair faintly smelled of tea tree oil; the inner strands ever so slightly damp. Hanzo pulled his hair up just as he got out of the shower that morning, before his hair dried.

He doesn’t care that the strands of now stray hair lay askew on his face. But he does care about the way Hanzo’s hands find his own. Lithe fingers softly stroke his own. McCree kisses down his neck, and past the shoulder to between his spine and shoulder blade. The cuddling crosses a threshold of intimacy when McCree’s mouth finds a spot to make home for a few minutes. There’s a barely noticeable arch in his back when McCree’s tongue pays homage to his skin. It’s a shy intimacy; dancing around the idea of a hickey because he’s far too gentle, yet the persistence is what leaves the mark. Reward is the deep, slow and shakey exhale and a request to do that again but higher up.

McCree’s lips attach to Hanzo’s neck.

McCree’s original intentions were to leave light marks in hideable places. Although he’s passed the collar of Hanzo’s usual uniform into obviously seen territory, the small hitch of breath Hanzo gives when his butterfly kisses morph to wet open mouth kisses is _oh_ so worth. The goosebumps say hello again when he sucks at a particular spot on his neck. The gasp when he gently bites is trekking on dangerous territory.

McCree’s mind was blanking and quite frankly McCree doesn’t care. Hanzo doesn’t either as he throatily requests to “Bite harder”. McCree can’t help but groan, Hanzo’s voice had a wispiness following the quiet rumbles. The hands now rubbing his arms are burning hot again, and McCree concludes that this man is either fire or ice and never in between. There was an adorable red hue dusting the exposed ear, which creeps down his neck the longer McCree’s teeth lingered.

Japanese reaches McCree’s ears, drawn on exhales and sharp inhales that indicate curses.

An arm untangles from around Hanzo’s waist to rest over his heart. Pulse elevated. There were two hickeys present, multiple patches of red abused skin. McCree takes the time to pepper the sensitive areas in soft gentle kisses, eventually cooing,

“You alright partner? You don’t seem so calm anymore.”

“I may have an affinity for biting.”

Oh. _Oh_.

McCree’s mouth ghosts up neck a little higher and bites in response. Maybe a little _too_ excited when Hanzo rubs his butt against his groin while also gasping quietly. His body trembles, yet his voice was so calm, so casually forward when he teases,

“Do you have an erection?”

There’s a smirk on his lips, a glint in his eyes McCree can’t see but damn well knows is there. Arms wrap around Hanzo’s torso and press him firmly to McCree’s chest, hips thrust forward ever so slightly. The bed creaks with the movement. Both are fully flushed, more so when McCree finally produces a verbal response to Hanzo’s question—even if it’s stuck between a growl and a whimper against the nape of the archer’s neck. Hanzo laughs charmingly in response. At least he wasn’t repulsed by the concept of a very turned on cowboy pressed against him.

“At least you have something to grind into.”

Was that an invitation? Or was that a hint that he’s turned on too? McCree stiffened before his arms loosen and a hand slides its way south of Hanzo’s belly button. An automatic tension filled the room, both failing to breathe until McCree’s hand softly palms a firm bulge beneath fabric.

Maybe the concept of a “hot n’ ready” cowboy was a bit of a turn on, after all.

“ _Well well well_ ,” McCree coos teasingly, hand searching for a waistband to sneak under. Hanzo presses his face to the bed, confident aura cracking as soon as calloused fingers grace his cock. A small peck is given to his neck, before McCree props up one elbow as his other arm works to pull out his latest find. One or two whole length strokes are given before McCree pushes foreskin down to reveal a vibrantly red tip. “ _Aren’t you an exotic one_.” Thumb sliding over with a careful squeeze and Hanzo twitches, a bead of precum forming.

From McCree’s elevated view he could see how much a piece of art this man was when he was turned on—from his arousal to the bridge of scarlet across his nose to his freshly bruised neck—courteous of McCree. A slight lean and Jesse’s lips kiss the tattooed shoulder, in conjunction with a firm stroke to Hanzo’s length. Hanzo’s head slides back to arch his neck, and McCree continues the hand motion while kissing across the tattoo to return at his neck.

The biting returns, and that’s really when Hanzo begins to respond back to him.

There’s a twisted pleasure in McCree’s mind, recalling that Hanzo hinted he was a top earlier. Certainly isn’t acting like one now, with how well he’s grinding his ass into the bulging flannel and how wanton he’s acting. McCree’s eyebrows furrow in strained concentration. Hand still jacking off with what remained of the precum as lubricant.

If McCree knew this was coming he would have prepared adequately, via finding that lube bottle he knows he has somewhere in a drawer. For now, he pauses his hand actions, which results in a head shift from Hanzo, confused only until McCree spits in his hand and resumes actions. Hot saliva slicking his cock easily, and the sensation earns a delightful moan from Hanzo. McCree requests in the most seductive voice he could muster what Hanzo would like him to do. A handful of bedsheets are squeezed by Hanzo, taking significantly longer to compose a response than normal.

Fast, just near the head, and love bites are the given instructions.

McCree performs to the best of his ability. Gradually small twitches appear, coupled with breathy moans which become more frequent. McCree feels hot and there’s already a sweat sheen on Hanzo’s exposed skin. The taste of his sweat ignites something visceral within the cowboy, and he’s slightly rougher with his movements. A grunt through a kiss, morphing into a pleased moan when he feels Hanzo’s body tense like a wave crashing through his muscles. Hanzo’s breath hitches for the final time.

McCree’s first name is a hiss on his lips when he cums.

The bites turn to sweet kisses as McCree squeezes and coaxes out every drop of his release. The little that landed on his fingers he brings to his mouth and licks off. “Did you just...?” Hanzo’s still facing away from him, still breathless. The unconcealed desire and shock in his tone makes McCree proud of himself.

“Couldn’t resist a little taste.” His voice is smooth and low, his own horniness seeping into his timbre. Jesse refrains from grinding his hips into his butt or touching himself; he promised Hanzo a good time not the other way around. The job was done.

There’s a feeling of closure that the intimacy has reached. Things might fall awkward depending on how these next few minutes are spent; what words are said and how their actions respond to one another. So, it’s expected when Hanzo sits up and opts to stand; tucking himself back into his pants. McCree grateful for not having to think of an excuse to mend the situation back to a normal one, although he feels colder and there is a sense of loss.

It's unexpected when Hanzo turns around and drops to his knees.

It’s shocking when he tugs McCree onto his back; shifting the vaquero’s hips to the edge of the bed in front of him. McCree notes the strength involved in causally moving the deadweight of a middle-aged man. He is an archer; his strength is in his arms and McCree found it explicitly enticing when used on him. McCree props himself up on both elbows to look down at Hanzo, face still red and eyes mischievous.

“What are yuh doin’ down there, Darlin’?”

Hanzo’s eyes avert to the bulge in Jesse’s pj pants.

When Hanzo pulls down his pjs and underwear McCree reminds him—though stutters—that the cuddling session was devoted to just him. McCree’s lackluster reminders are easily ignored as his erection pops out and stands tall for Hanzo. The look on Hanzo’s face as he admired his cock would be a guilty pleasure for years to come. The dirty smile that slips Jesse’s defenses is what causes Hanzo to snap out of it and glare to the best of his ability.

He continues to glare even as he licks along the entire length of McCree’s cock.

The smirk wiped from Jesse’s face when he feels the hot tongue run along sensitive territory. Jesse was a shameless man just like Hanzo, but maintaining eye contact became sinful and downright difficult when it dawned on McCree that Hanzo has an _unusually long tongue_ that he knew how to use all too well. Eyes drop to watching that same tongue almost curl around his whole circumference, _almost._ His girth would be difficult to swallow with how small Hanzo’s mouth is.

Making the motion more erotic when the archer does finally engulf his head. There’s a sharp inhale and shakey exhale. There’s goosebumps along his thighs that Hanzo’s keen to notice and soothe with his palms. Hands shift between rubbing his thighs, squeezing the sides of his ass, and stroking the remaining length of Jesse’s cock. This man flipped the situation with McCree now the one grabbing onto his own sheets.

It’s not long before his elbows give and he lays flat against the bed.

Hanzo’s mouth begins to take in more than just the tip, and McCree’s hand flies over his own mouth. He’s a quiet lover. He’s a quiet lover— “ _Holy shit_ , Hanzo— _babe_.” It’s between a hiss and a moan, and an appreciative hum encompasses his cock. It’s followed by a chuckle, and that chuckle sounded dangerous. McCree lifts his head to look down at Hanzo in response.

Hanzo’s lips plummet to the base of his cock.

Eyes widen and there’s a visible tremor that passes through Jesse. Pleasure was no foreign concept to him but this intensity was something new. Hanzo’s mouth, like his body, is an inferno around his cock. Slick and oh so tight, especially with his sensitive head lodged where it’s even tighter down Hanzo’s esophagus. When he pulls back up he does it painstakingly slowly, exuding confidence and control in his ability to not choke even when McCree’s cock twitches in his throat.

Jesse’s left in shambles. He’s so weak for deviant between his knees. Never again could he look at that face with purely utmost professionalism or casual friendship. Never again could McCree have a fan-fuck-tastic blow job from someone else.

A curse on his break escapes him when Hanzo’s chastely kisses the tip of his cock. That curse is repeated louder, those syllables drawn out when Hanzo immediately deepthroats him again. McCree’s head falls to the mattress, hand flying from the bedsheets to Hanzo’s loose hair. The scratches of dull fingernails to the archer’s scalp are intentional; the grip to the hair follicles is an involuntary response to Hanzo’s miraculous ability to push him in a little farther and _hold it_. McCree allows himself a languid moan.

When Hanzo returns to pumping the base of his cock with a hand and vigorously bobbing his head, most words begin to elude McCree.

Hanzo’s the only word that eventually remains on his mind after he warns he’s about to climax. That’s when Hanzo presses his tongue flat against the underside of McCree’s circumcised head, and firmly strokes the whole length of his shaft.

McCree forces himself to prop up on his elbows again, just in time to watch his cum land on Hanzo’s tongue. That face was lewd, and the mouth even more so when filled with _his semen_. Oh, and he swallowed too. Licked his lips. _Winked_. McCree was going to _die_ —by a Hanzo’s mouth.

There’s that chaste kiss to his tip again.

McCree doesn’t care about the afterglow until he has Hanzo yanked up from the floor, onto his bed and in his arms again. No way in hell would he let him leave his room so quickly after that. This time though, the cuddling was not spooning, rather face-to-face. McCree holds him close, peppering his forehead and hair in kisses while rubbing a knee undoubtedly sore from the cold hard floor.

“I see you’re quite the cuddler.”

“And you’re a sex demon.”

Hanzo chuckles and denies it. A hand maneuvers to Jesse’s shoulder then tangles in his hair.

“I’ve never seen anyone handle a cock like that—let alone _mine._ ” Hanzo’s hand slides from McCree’s hair to pat him on the chest; voice quiet but unrestrained, “ _Only for you_.”

“I like the sound of that.” McCree admits, voice tender. His hand caresses from Hanzo’s knee, across his thigh, over hip, and along his waist. It lingers there, rubbing rhythmically again just as when Hanzo first joined him on the bed. They were back at square one, both oh so content in each other’s arms. Breathing calms although cheeks remain pink. Hanzo leans in to snuggle closer to Jesse’s chest; McCree’s hands slide to his back and begin rubbing there. Hanzo lets out a pleased sigh.

“Hey sugar, before you get settled…” McCree murmurs.

Hanzo peeks out from his chest, greeted by warm chocolate eyes nearby. There’s a half-assed mumble of ‘hello’ on his part. McCree smiles in response, before his voice drops to almost a whisper. There’s an affection in the way he speaks so quietly, something in Hanzo’s head telling him that this tone isn’t for everyone.

“ **Do you trust me** , Hanzo?”

Now that Jesse could see Hanzo’s nodding face, he’s an open book. An open book begging to be read and right now McCree’s reading only one word.

_Kissable._

**Author's Note:**

> Hello I have boarded the McHanzo McBang train officially with my own work, woohoo! I aim to write more of them; truly a flexible couple. Although I'm a novice to writing M/M sexual content, I hope I've dispensed them reasonable justice. 
> 
> I also hope the content flows well, I thought it was odd to start with that detailed fight scene then digress to the cuddling and "cuddling" as the main focus. The weird plot divide was not intentional. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! :D Thank you for commenting (if you do comment,) really fuels my ego as a gross writer. :D
> 
> Unbeta'd because I believe in myself.


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